Jane Boleyn
by Reality's Runaway
Summary: An intimate account from an otherwise ruthless woman.


Jane Boleyn

I suppose that was it. That was what I had so long desired, so long yearned for. Yet nothing was as expected. All my hopes for this night lay shattered and empty on the cold, wooden floor.

He does not love me. He will never love me – at least not at all as he loves his sisters or that little whore with the brown-red hair and freckled cheeks. I would forever be his loathsome wife, enemy in all but name.

This revelation brought a new wave of tears to stain my wan face and wet my nightgown, already sullied with blood. My head dropped onto my knees, drawn up in an attempt to ease the pain and lessen the sharp cold of the night. I shivered and shook with sorrow. I beat the soft mattress with numb fists. The fire had died the moment George stepped into the room not an hour ago. I had been waiting for what seemed an age, and when he finally opened the door to our nuptial chamber, as if foretelling the chill to come, the last flames glittered before dying as mere sparks in the embers. My husband made no move to rekindle the fire – he simply threw his glass onto the broken logs before striding inimically over to the bed, where I had been waiting anxiously.

He fixed me with an icy stare when I questioned his tardiness. His gorgeous black hair was tousled, his wedding garments disheveled and stained with wine. The scent of his drunken breath caused me to shrivel my nose in disgust, though he was only at the foot of the enormous bed. I was unsure where he had spent these last three hours, but I was certain it was not merely laughing with the king, or playing cards in the banquet hall. I inquired again about his absence, but he remained silent, grasping the bedpost and staring at me, his eyes emotionless. I tried to smile – not an enticing smile, but one that was kind and gentle – in a vain attempt to warm the frigid atmosphere between us. But George's face shook me to the bones and it became apparent no tenderness could sooth the hatred mounting inside my husband. It was frightening – he did not even resemble the George Boleyn I knew. That witty, vivacious boy who caught my eye his first night at court, when he danced with Mary, giggled with Anne, and enchanted all the ladies present. The hostile man before me was a stranger.

My lip trembled unconsciously and tears moistened my eyes. We remained as such for some time – I too frightened to neither speak nor move; he concomitantly threatening me with his reticent countenance.

I shifted beneath the covers after it felt a year had passed, quite unable to decide what to do. Much to my relief, George released me from his piercing scowl as he cursed under his breath. The foul words he uttered startled even me, one who had been so long at court, in the midst of rancorous revelries and naughty ladies-in-waiting. I desperately wished to quit the room, to flee anywhere, anywhere at all to escape from this undeserved, inordinate hatred.

I am his wife, for God's sake! Yet he treated me with such antagonism and roughness, a layman would have assumed I had not come willingly into the bed.

It began quickly. Without warning, he slammed his fist onto a nearby table, sending a tense vibration through the floor. Then suddenly, he climbed hurriedly onto the bed and on top of me, supporting all his weight on his elbows and knees, as if touching me was too revolting to bear. I supposed he wanted to begin, so I reached to unbutton his doublet. My efforts were dispelled as he knocked away my hand, before he merely pulled down his breeches enough to allow for the act. He did not even fully undress for me, his wife. Hastily he mounted me, as if I were a common whore, and took my maidenhead. Not once did he allow me to kiss him or perhaps make the event more enjoyable – if not for him then for myself at least, for the pain was quite intense.

No caresses, no kisses, no intimacies. Simply a cold, formal consummation of what would likely prove to be a cold, formal marriage. While it did not last long, I had sufficient time to sob silently to myself as he avoided all unnecessary contact. He could not even pretend I was some other woman! I contemplated the lesser of two evils, deciding that being imagined as another lover would have been preferable to this – this cruel acknowledgement of his repugnance for me. I desired George from the moment I spotted him in the crowd, but this was torture so poignant and so intense, I was certain the rack could not be worse.

Not long after it began, it was finished. He swiftly pulled himself away and I felt the blood trickling between my thighs. Though it was George's for the taking, I could not help but consider this a theft of my virginity – but all thoughts of self-pity and remorse turned to complete shock as I noticed him pull up his breeches and remove a raincoat off the chair.

"Where are you going?" I asked without hesitation.

For the first time that evening, he spoke. "Away from here."

_Away from you_, is what he meant. The thought pierced me like a thousand daggers. My husband could not even share a room with me on our wedding night.

I quickly realized my inquiry seemed silly. There was no doubt in my mind where he was going. It could only be one of two places – either to his conclave of siblings, or into the bed of that tiny whore. George never voluntarily spent time with me during our engagement. I was a fool to believe a cold ceremony and a hollow exchange of vows – though mine were from the heart – would change the animosity he felt towards me.

To demur at his departure would have been futile. The emotions inside of me were tumultuous, and I felt as though at any moment I would scream, sob, or perhaps even laugh. Without any parting words or glances, he was gone. It was then that the rain began to fall outside, mirroring the tears streaming down my face – a face that would never bring a smile to my husband, save, perhaps, if it was rotting on a spike.

Though I was still hurting, I climbed down from the thick mattress and planted my bare feet on the icy floor. The chill barely phased me, however, as I hobbled to the window. The tears clouded my vision, and the rain distorted my view as I searched for George amongst the people, still bustling in the square after the wedding banquet. I prayed I would not see him trotting his large black horse down the south path – not a quarter of a mile along that road lived the little whore. The exclusive Boleyn sibling coterie I found barely tolerable, but the intimacies between him and that tiny sweets-maker were unendurable.

As I feared, I spotted Cosmos nearly galloping across the yard and into the south alley. The horse's sheer size and George's green coat were unmistakable. My head fell against the glass pane as I allowed myself to weep unremittingly.

My husband prefers a peasant whore over me. A tradeswoman whom no one knows has the love and devotion of the possible Viscount of Rochford, while I, the daughter of a baron, born into a redoubtable family of lineage and fortune, am treated like the worthless tramp. How ludicrous. I turned away from the window in shame, climbing back into my empty bed of sorrows. The helplessness I felt was draining, the pain acute. George, that cunning boy, was well aware I could do nothing to remedy the situation. The King himself was cognizant of my husband's lover; he had even laughed at George's biting songs explaining in graphic detail my inadequacies and faults as a woman – and this was many weeks ago. Indeed, I even overheard the typically genteel King question George as to Hope's – the whore's – performance in bed. Needless to say, I did not linger for the answer. Why, my husband made it appear as if _she_ were to become his wife! My tears of sadness grew to tears of rage when I remembered how he flaunted Hope to his sisters. As I am wont to do – a bad habit I admit – I had been spying into the Boleyn girls' chambers after dinner one night when George appeared through a back door, carrying the tiny tart on his back, as if he, a happy groom, and she, his happy bride, were entering the nuptial room.

Her shiny, brow-red hair draped over his shoulders, her fair arms gracefully wrapped around his neck. She certainly is a pretty creature, but fair looks do not remove the stain of low birth, in my opinion.

"Well, Boleyn sisters, how does she look?" George asked Anne and Mary, who were examining Anne's collection of dresses; both were opulently clothed in extravagant gowns more French than English in style – Anne preferred the lower necklines and more gaudy colors found in Queen Claude's court.

George let Hope down gently. She stepped forward, preparing for her examination by two of the most critical women in all of England – vile creatures the both of them, I must say.

I expected Anne to utter some cruel and biting comment, or feign disinterest in her brother's new lover. But what she did bewildered me. I could not see her face as her back was turned towards me, but I heard her squeal with delight and clap her hands as if very proud of something. It was then that I noticed Hope's stunning pale green gown.

"Oh, George! She looks splendid!"

I could not believe my ears. Anne Boleyn was sincerely complimenting a member of her own sex. And she sounded truly happy, as well.

"Mary," she continued, "does the dress not do wonders to her skin? And her hair shines so against the green!" Anne rushed forward to embrace the small whore, who stands at least two hands shorter than she and must not weigh more than seven or eight stone – Hope disappeared completely behind Anne, who is by no means plump.

The tart, in the meantime, said precious little. She merely smiled and bent her head towards the ground, obviously not accustomed to such attentions, especially from two women of such relatively high birth and in favor of the King. I was thoroughly sickened – and amazed – by what I saw. Anne had clearly given this sinful whore a specially tailored gown, and one that must have cost a fortune, too. The two sisters fawned over the girl and George seemed to be held in rapture.

"You will be husband and wife in all but name," Anne had told the two.

Indeed, and much to my chagrin, it seems Anne's prediction would come true.

The whore will not receive George's name or lands or titles – that is my sole comfort. But as I sit here huddled in this empty bed, disgraced and cold, while my husband warms himself not a mile away in the arms of another, I will consent that being George Boleyn's mistress is preferable to being George Boleyn's wife.

Jane Boleyn. What a cursed name.


End file.
